


Tobirama Week

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Brothers, Canonical Character Death, Celebrations, Comedy, Competition, Death, Difficult Decisions, Drama, Falling In Love, Family, Gen, Hokage, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Invention, Love, Obsession, Pride, Self-Sacrifice, Tobirama Week, War, Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3360989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posting late but catching up for 2015 Tobirama Week. Posted in 7 chapters, one for each day. </p><p>Day 1 - Family<br/>Day 2 - War<br/>Day 3 - Suiton<br/>Day 4 - Invention<br/>Day 5 - Hokage<br/>Day 6 - Death<br/>Day 7 - Free</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Family

**Author's Note:**

> I'm late to the party. But in the spirit of Valentine's Day, Tobirama's Birthday, my weepy feelings, my somehow actually working writer's word flow, and the success of "And Never" (my Tobirama/Touka fic), I'm in.
> 
> Tobirama, you magnificent beast. Happy birthday!

Tobirama lived in an era shredded by wars. He was born in the middle of a battle by a woman so steel-spined that she delivered him alone as his father led their people against the Hagoromo clan. He'd entered the world covered in blood. He'd one day leave it the same way. Life was always as chaotic as that. Broken timelines. Broken weapons. Broken bodies. In such a time as his, one would find peace where he could. Tobirama found his in knowing where he stood precisely at any given moment, as exact as the edge of a blade. 

Their father was a difficult man, but Tobirama was attentive, perceptive. He saw why Senju Butsuma was the way that he was, though his brothers never would. He saw it in the grim line of his mouth, the tense set of his shoulders, the stiff iron in his straight spine. Their father was a _leader_ , the patriarch of a proud, fierce, and passionate people. He carried the cares and concerns of many upon his broad shoulders. He didn’t have four sons. He had _hundreds_.

Even at a young age, Tobirama was proud.

He admired his father, emulated him in every way possible. He matched his pose and posture. He committed phrases and philosophies to heart. Every word his father uttered about war, Tobirama etched upon his soul as gospel. Someday, he’d need his father’s wisdom. He knew it, deep in his gut. Someday, their father would be gone, and they’d mourn the loss of his experience and power. All they'd have left were the memories. Tobirama would keep as many as he could. 

Every family was woefully incomplete without an outlier. The runt of the litter. The black sheep of the flock. The village idiot. The type of person that never quite fit in, who went against the rhythm and broke every rule. It just so happened that the Senju had Hashirama. Tobirama had pictures painted in his imagination of how they must look with him there. 

Grim, stony-faced, battlebred Senju. Cold iron. Somber faces. The grey of rainclouds in the background. Smudges of dirt, or blood. 

Grinning-like-an-idiot, Hashirama, sticking his tongue out. Tobirama still stifled a laugh when he remembered how his elder brother had insisted on chopping his own hair. 

As much as he loved and respected his father, he loved Hashirama more.

The more emotion Hashirama bled, the fewer Tobirama allowed himself to feel. Hashirama grinned, laughed, and danced. Tobirama deleted happiness from his emotional repertoire. Hashirama sobbed and shrieked with outrage and grief. Tobirama quietly swore off sorrow. Hashirama charged forward head first like an idiot. Tobirama learned to hang back and observe. Hashirama defied his father. In every possible way. Tobirama became his father. In every possible way.

It was too complicated a goal to be every kind of personality, so Tobirama chose to be like his father. By contrast, Hashirama chose to be everything _opposite_ their father. And though he kept a straight face as Hashirama continuously made a fool of himself, Tobirama smiled on the inside when Hashirama smiled on the outside. Tobirama was his brother’s darker reflection, and it was precisely where he knew he belonged.

And so it would come to pass that Hashirama would take their father's place as the head of the clan. Tobirama had sensed early that such an event would be both disastrous and wondrous at once. Hashirama was the bright spot in their dark world, but it made him stand out. He'd lived with a target on his back since the day he was born. And if that hadn't been enough, the moment he grinned was like nails on a chalkboard to the ears of warriors. And if that wasn't enough, Hashirama needed only open his mouth. Sometimes when his lips flapped, golden speeches poured out, and the other nations bent a listening ear, knelt in awestruck deference. 

And sometimes, utter nonsense spewed forth.

When Hashirama's methods were working, Tobirama was content to hang back and observe. Hashirama did his thing, and meanwhile Tobirama kept an eye out for enemies, spies and assassins. Hashirama spoke with generals and leaders. Tobirama checked on the people. Hashirama gesticulated grandly about the world he sought to create. Tobirama reined him in ever so slightly, keeping him grounded and realistic.

And other times, Hashirama needed a good smack upside the head. 

And still other times, Hashirama needed a listening ear.

Or a scathing remark. 

Or complete silence.

Hashirama cried when his brothers died while Tobirama looked on in silent acceptance. He worried for Tobirama when Tobirama calmly went to war. He laughed, loud and often, when Tobirama couldn't find the right muscles for smiling. He lived in the light while Tobirama protected the darkness. And he loved Mito, passionately, as long as his life allowed it, while Tobirama never found the time for lovers.

And though they were so very different, they somehow agreed on this one thing: they were brothers. And of all the blood ties in the world, this one was the most worthy. 

Tobirama would always be there for him, no matter what. Because Hashirama had loved and respected his father. But he loved Tobirama more. 

 

**  
  
  
  
**


	2. War

Peace was a myth he knew they’d chase forever. It simply wasn’t in mankind to sit still for too long, or to be content with his lot. The universe resisted order. Peace was that fraction of a second after every tiny thing in existence was set in a perfectly straight line. It lasted only as long as every one of those things was content not to twitch a muscle.

Then one of them would put a toe wrong. And the rest would find it unfair that one had gotten away with it. And then a small debate would occur. That turned into an argument. That attracted the attention of the others and became a fight.

And then there would be wars.

So Tobirama wasn’t at all surprised when their ‘flawless plan for world peace’--which involved distributing tailed beasts like consolation prizes to enemies so fresh from the killing fields that the blood on their shoes was still red--fell flat upon its face. He remembered the exact moment. The message came by bird. His elder brother unraveled the slip of paper. His eyes went wide. Tobirama asked him what the message said. Hashirama hadn’t wanted to say. Tobirama had, of course, opposed his idea to hand out tailed beasts, vehemently. It was one of the arguments that Hashirama had won when he knew he shouldn’t have.

It was one where Tobirama relented, but gave him that look that said, “Someday I’m going to get to tell you I told you so,” when _he_ shouldn’t have.

When Hashirama finally found the words to tell him that Kumo declared war, Tobirama had only raised a brow. The day was bound to come eventually. _No one_ held that kind of power in the palm of his hands without wondering at its extent.

“Don’t do it,” Hashirama had said.

“Do what?” he'd asked innocently.

He gave him a look. “You know what.”

He smirked.

“You’re thinking it,” Hashirama accused.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but you’re thinking it.”

“Thinking what?”

He rolled his eyes and then stared. Then he took a breath and made a mockery of his brother, deepening his voice and saying, “Hashirama, I told you this would happen.”

Tobirama blinked. “Did I say that?”

They were silent a moment. Satisfied that he wouldn’t comment, Hashirama finally let it go. “We’ll need to start moving within the hour. Think you can get everyone ready?”

Tobirama gave a curt nod, then made to leave the planning table. Just before he left he turned and said over his shoulder, “But I did say I told you so.”

* * *

With fifteen minutes to spare, Tobirama found a place to sit out in the middle of a field of long grasses. In his mind, he strategized, thinking of the best ways to utilize their resources and the correct formations to minimize loss of life. A particularly strong gust of wind made him shut his eyes. A storm was brewing, and the change in pressure sent gales of cool wind blasting across the landscape. Silvery green grasses shivered in waves, whipping against their roots. _Resisting the perfectly straight line,_ he reflected.

"Tobirama."

His eyes slowly opened. He knew Hashirama was behind him. By the tone of his voice, it was the serious one this time. “Hashirama.”

He crossed the field and sat beside him. After a moment of silence, of gathering his thoughts, he sighed. “I was wrong about the tailed beasts. I should have listened to you then.”

Tobirama found no joy in it. Tailed beasts or no tailed beasts, this war was coming anyway. He told his brother so. “War was going to happen again eventually,” he dismissed.

Unexpectedly, Hashirama took that as a consolation. “You’re right.”

Tobirama peeked at him from his peripheral. “I suppose there’s some comfort in knowing that we’ll be here for this one.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

Tobirama picked at the grass. The edge of one leaf slid across his palm, slicing a stinging red line into the meat of his hand. He stared at the grass, and the wound, thinking of his earlier metaphor. _A broken straight line, and the first attack loosed._ He smiled. The world was always at war, in some small way. “We grew up this way. We’re used to this. You and I are the strongest shinobi left alive. The Senju are prepared. I’ve kept our fighters sharp. We’ll be fine.”

His frown deepened. “I decreed that most of the shinobi were to be put on reserve and used instead for ancillary functions. Like building roads and learning trade.”

“Yes you did. I lost that decree. On purpose. And aren’t you glad I did?”

His brother was silent, looking out across the plain. For several minutes there was no sound but the howling wind, drowning out what they might have heard of the readying Senju behind them. “I’ve sent a message to Kiri. I’m asking them to ally with us against Kumo. It’s well known that the two are hostile. If we combine forces, we should be able to stop this rather quickly.”

Tobirama felt the first stirrings of dread. “You didn’t even consult me,” he grumbled, more bothered by the concept than being left out. “We should handle this threat on our own. We can’t trust the other nations. At the very least, not yet.”

Hashirama loosed a tortured sigh. “We have to be able to trust _someone_. This world has to start somewhere. Shouldn’t we be able to have at least one friend out there?”

“Since the beginning, I’ve told you my answer to that, and it’s _no_.” He shook his head. “I told you, if you want to set up relations with the outlying clans, you should show them only the surface and keep back most of your secrets.”

“How are they to trust me if all I do is lie?”

Tobirama shook his head again, knowing he would lose this one, too. “Hashirama, this isn’t one of those arguments that I’m willing to leave at ‘I’ll tell you I told you so.’ Because if I have to say ‘I told you so,’ a lot of people are going to die for it.” His voice was rising in volume as he spoke, fueled by anger and concern. “And if you keep acting so foolish, one of these days it’s going to be _you_. I won't have it.”

“No,” Hashirama said, twice as quiet as Tobirama was loud. “I won’t let that happen.” He stood. “And nothing bad is going to happen to you either. Kiri will help. Kumo will fall. And this time next year, everything will be back on track, and we’ll forget all about this argument, just like we’ve forgotten more than half the others.”

“I don’t forget any of them,” he muttered honestly. Because he didn’t.

Hashirama was already too far away for him to hear. Tobirama turned to look over his shoulder. The image there would be burned forever in his mind. Just like he’d imagined it, so many years ago. His hair was different, but there they were. The Senju, suited up in armor, faces set for war. Behind them, grey storm clouds gathered.

And there, at the front of them all, was Hashirama, grinning like an idiot, ready to prove his little brother wrong.

He forgot his anger. With a sigh of resignation, Tobirama picked himself up off the ground and dusted away the severed grass blades. He went to join them. To his credit, Hashirama was correct exactly half the time.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those times.

Looking back, Tobirama wished he’d pushed just a little harder.


	3. Suiton

Tobirama stood upon the glassy surface of the lake, his fingers tapped to his bowed head. His eyes drifted closed. He breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of cold water, fresh morning. Before training of this nature, he always recalled the memories of his father. Back then, it was the only time their father truly connected with his sons, for manipulating water chakra was Butsuma’s personal hobby. It was said--quietly of course--that his artistry of it was what had captured their mother’s eye in the first place. Tobirama didn’t know for certain. He’d never dared ask.

* * *

 

“Water requires a firm hand,” their father instructed. His eyes were closed, hands relaxed upon his knees. “It is fickle, fluid, and yet... water is the most powerful force in existence. It is the strongest of the elements. It is also the oldest, and the one most closely associated with the creation of all life. A person’s body is made almost entirely of water.”

Tobirama listened intently. His father got a faraway look when he spoke of water. His gruff demeanor didn’t, at first glance, seem suited for the beautiful artistry of water. But then, Tobirama had always known that there was more to Senju Butsuma than met the unaided eye. His father was a complicated man.

“Look!” Hashirama exclaimed urgently, distracting from the lesson.

As one, father and younger brother’s eyes snapped open, independently leaping to the same conclusion. _Danger_. By instinct alone, Butsuma was already half pushed off the ground by one thick arm.

Of course, it never was danger, with Hashirama. His fingers were entwined, gathering chakra. His dark eyes were bright with joy. Around his head, a half dozen fish made of water swam in lazy circles. “This is amazing!” he exclaimed with excitement.

Tobirama and his father exchanged looks. Hashirama’s extraordinary ability to pick up new techniques was their father’s only soft spot for Tobirama’s elder brother. A smile played at his lips before he adopted a sterner expression. “Hashirama,” their father rumbled.

“Hm?” Hashirama blinked. Tobirama observed with some envy how, even though Hashirama was completely distracted, his creations continued their slow meandering about his head.

His father definitely couldn’t help his smile then. “Since you seem to have grasped this so easily, perhaps you should go pester your mother to teach you about earth.”

Hashirama lit up like the noonday sun. For obvious reasons, Hashirama preferred their mother over their father. He didn’t hesitate to drop water training in favor of practicing earth with her. After a brief, polite bow towards his father, he tore off through the trees to go find her. His fish, forgotten and unsustained, flopped out of orbit and splashed upon the ground, darkening the earth.

Tobirama watched them soak into the soil.

“As I was saying,” Butsuma continued, fighting back a smile. “Any idiot with talent can be slightly--” his gaze fell to the damp earth where the fish had been swallowed by the earth. He amended his statement. “--can be _moderately_ skilled with manipulating the element of water. But. _True_ masters will have a firm hand. Perfect chakra control. Unyielding will. Sway but a little, and you will lose control of your jutsu with potentially devastating results. Water is huge and powerful and difficult to contain. Wind without containment dissipates into nothing. Fire is destructive, but can be guided or doused with water. Lightning is gone in an instant. And earth is stationary.

“When a jutsu user loses control of water, though, it cannot be contained. It ruins property, drowns life, disrupts everything it touches. That’s why we’re talking about it and not trying to... create floating fish.”

He clapped a hand upon Tobirama’s shoulder. “You’re an exceptionally strong boy, Tobirama. I think, someday, you will master water better than me. Perhaps even better than your brother. But to do that, you’ll need to keep a calm head. Control the water. Don’t let the water control you. Be patient. You have to walk before you can run.”

 _But you can learn to fly without learning either,_ he added, thinking of his brother. “What happens if you combine water with earth, and use them together?” he wondered.

“I think you’ll find that out soon,” his father explained, grinning with true pleasure. “Ask your brother in a few days.”

Tobirama was usually very patient, but Hashirama’s fish starved him. He wanted to do that. To surpass that. To impress their father. So he didn’t run. He didn’t walk, though either. He _flew_. In his dutifully practiced stoicism, Tobirama found the personality traits required.

Patience. Control. Serenity.

Hashirama learned earth from their mother. Creative boy that he was, he learned to meld his parents’ abilities into something innovative and new, a thing that could never be replicated. Tobirama wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t jealous of it either.

Because he directed his energy into achieving legendary skill in the use of water chakra. 

* * *

 

 ****His brow creased only slightly.

The entire lake rose from the lake bed, save for the two square feet upon which he stood, teeming with frightened fish that bulged against their containment, sliding along the soles of his bare feet. He ignored them. Water was incredibly heavy, and did--as his father had promised--require all of his focus and willpower. If he lost control for even a second, hundreds of thousands of pounds of it would crash and break everything beneath it. Up and up the lake rose, drops of it breaking free, raining like a storm of wet and shining diamonds. He frowned as he worked, disappointed that he didn't have the strength yet to hold in every prismatic droplet. 

Next time.

When he was satisfied with the amount of it and its height, he shaped it. He threw the entirety of his power into it, lurching the element in his grasp into surging motion. His head and the pressure within his body throbbed with agony, pushing right up to the limit of his capabilities, threatening to burst. He couldn't drop it now, though, not when he'd gotten so close. He knew his senses were diving toward panic.

 _Calm_ , he reminded himself. _Perfect, serene calm, like the glassy surface of the lake._

The ring of swirling, burgeoning water righted and smoothed out. He was too focused to find joy in that. Having balanced his technique, he wasted no time. He applied the change in chakra form, splitting the ring into six equal parts. The six parts transformed quickly, fine features snapped into existence, gold eyes glowing, and then six identical celestial roars rent the air. His creations orbited his head, much like Hashirama's fish had more than a decade past. But Tobirama was beyond fanciful minnows. No touch of whimsy for Hashirama's somber little brother.

He needed fighters. Chakra soldiers. A warrior's whimsy.

Dragons. 


	4. Invention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early. Because, again, I'm bored. And it's done, so like... read it and stuff.

_She_ ruined everything.

In the first instance that he laid eyes upon her, she destroyed his concentration. It was a fleeting thing, a slip of his focus, nothing more. He lost control of the Wind at his command. It exploded in his face, sliced his cheeks all to hell. All in all it was an inexpensive mistake, a slap on the wrist for being a fool. When next he looked, she was already gone. But from it, he’d gained a brief photo capture for his idetic memory, and for a long time, that was all he needed.

The next thing she ruined was his ability rest. Tobirama needed only the barest essentials the world offered. Unfortunately, sleep was one. But her photo capture haunted his thoughts, pervaded his dreams. He didn’t know her. He might never. But there was something hidden in every brush stroke, things he was sure only he could see. Like the way the sunlight made the edges of her hair glow, or the bright sparkle in her blue eyes like breaking waves. The secretive dimple that had only appeared when her smile deepened. So many, many things in a single glance. All of that, from an instant. What might she be like, given more time for movement? The thought kept him awake at night. At the time, he justified the obsession by labeling it ‘passing curiosity.’

Tobirama was ever driven by his need to understand. Chakra, war, the heartbeat of shinobi. The exact nature of a jutsu, the descent into chaos, why the river flows downhill. Why _up_ is _up_ , and _down_ is _down_. What are stars? What happens when a person dies? What tells a heart to beat? To slow, to quicken? He did a lot of thinking, especially when he was alone. Betimes, he regarded his active mind as a blessing. Other times, like now--with her--it was clearly a curse.

She stole his ability to speak after. Ran headlong into him, breathless and joyful, murmuring an apology and offering her name. _Ren_. She’d asked for his, and he promptly forgot. Every word in his language died in his lungs. He’d been far more concerned about what to say to the person that haunted his dreams than he had with something as uninteresting as his own name. As he fought to find such a phrase--something witty, humorous, or intelligent, to impress (but why?)--he was rewarded with the curious way her face changed as she waited. First from pleasant, patient conversation--a tiny smile, slow blinking, her upturned face--and then onward to confusion--brows scrunched together, a wry smirk, a more sideways glance, her tongue sliding across her lips, distracting. At last she opted for bewildered and offended, thinking he’d only ignored her. She shook her head, blinking rapidly, and used her hand to push him aside.

Her brand upon his flesh was the portent of the next breaking.

“Tobirama,” he blurted the very next time he saw her. He made sure to say it first, to answer her question by way of apology while he attempted to find that elusive turn of phrase again.

“I’m sorry?” She looked confused.

He worried she had forgotten him. “No, _I’m_ sorry. Some time ago, you asked for my name, and I failed to find something clever to say. I offended you. It wasn’t my intent." He pointed to his chest. "My name is Tobirama.”

Her chin tilted, casting her thoughts toward the heavens, seeking a memory. “I’ve heard it somewhere.”

 _Probably_ , he thought, but he didn’t want to talk about war. He wanted to watch _her_ talk, to see the way her lips changed shape. To hear her laugh. To watch her cut the air with her hands as she tried to demonstrate her meanings. So many things… normal humans did them, but he found that behavior and speech became true art when employed by her particular form. He could watch her forever and never say a word.

Tobirama had once proudly discarded every emotion he could identify, save temper. He’d done it to provide an effective counterbalance for his elder brother. He’d done it to impress his father. For so many reasons, he’d deleted his ability to feel basic human shortcomings. Irritation. Grief. Panic. Confusion. Excitement. Happiness. Love and lust.

She destroyed that next, the day she kissed him. Whatever barrier he’d constructed around his heart evaporated as if it had never been. It took them forever to make it from the offer of her name to that first, testing kiss. It took him less than five minutes for him to take her from that kiss to his bed.

Every emotion he’d suppressed blasted free of their imprisonment in a single torrent of feeling. _Irritation_ \--his pants caught on his heel and he tripped. _Grief_ \--for the time he’d already wasted, not loving her. _Panic_ \--he had no idea what he was doing, and his heart was trying to break inside his chest for the beauty of her. _Confusion_ \--Because what in the gods’ own universe was happening to him, and would he live through the pain of its glory? _Excitement_ \--the new sparkle in her blue eyes and the artful, delicate curves of her skin were new images, more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen before. _Happiness_ \--a thing he’d never known before this moment. _Love_ , and _lust_ \-- _so much of both._

His delicate, unflappable control. Completely destroyed.

The rest of his priorities followed his emotions out the metaphorical door. He didn’t care at all for his discipline. He let his chores lapse, forgot about his training on purpose, blew off necessary meetings with officers. Everyone noticed, but no one said anything about it. In retrospect, they probably knew and understood. The faces of older men were at once sympathetic and grim. Any day could kill them all. They let him be.

Hashirama picked up on it. “So,” he sighed breezily. “Who is she?”

“Ren,” he said on a lover’s sigh, every pore and vein filled with her perfection.

Hashirama nodded. Watched him watch leaves flutter upon the breeze. Observed as his broody little brother found the transient beauty of fleeting things, wept a single tear for the simple perfection of a leaf floating away on autumnal zephyrs. After a moment, he patted his shoulder consolingly, rubbed his back roughly. Commiserating, for a reason Tobirama didn’t quite understand, but was grateful for anyway.

She ruined his life when she died, cut down as she tried to flee from a surprise attack from the flank. She’d been running toward him when it happened, panic showing him the whites of her eyes he’d only ever seen when her pleasure sent her irises behind. With a wordless cry of fear, she begged him to save her, reached, supplicating and impossibly hopeful. He was the fastest shinobi alive.

And he hadn’t been _quite_ fast enough.

There were times, in his past, when he’d berated Hashirama his radical leap between emotions. Or when he’d lost his temper simply because Hashirama felt _too much_ for matters that didn’t concern him that he could not control. He’d scorned him sharply for indecorous displays of grief or humility. Never once did Hashirama fight him on it, accepting Tobirama’s insult, though it hurt him to do so.

Tobirama apologized for it a hundred times as his heart bled water through his eyes, repeating _I’m sorry_ over and over again in lieu of saying her name. He confessed his every torment, how his heart ached and how he was certain he was dying, how it was his fault he couldn’t save her in time. He admitted his shame, begged for forgiveness, longed for the relief of death.

And all the while, Hashirama held him, shared in his grief and his tears. Because there was nothing he could do to bring her back. The only thing that he knew he could do was show his little brother that his own emotional madness had a use after all. Hashirama’s tears made him feel less insane. But moreover, they proved that she’d been _real_ , and worth whatever pain she’d brought him.

She ruined his hold on sanity next, dragging his serenity with her to the grave. Even in death, her destruction knew no bounds.

He regained his focus and determination. He drove his trainees mercilessly, burned any unfortunate enough to follow him near to the brink of chakra exhaustion. He ran them until their feet bled and their lungs ached for air. He plunged over the end of what was good and what was right, blurred the lines of duty, honor, and law.

In that time, he found the strength to apologize too late. Far too late. He learned how to be in two places at once. He learned how to be even faster than any human being had a right to be. Nightly, he begged her to return, promising he could save her this time if only she’d give him back what she’d taken with her. Nightly, the heavens were silent.

He vowed to bring her back. In the secret places of his tortured mind, he plotted out the hand seals and the feel of chakra for what it would take. He meditated instead of slept, searching for knowledge and opening the gates of his mind to the muses of inspiration. It would come to him, if he were vigilant enough. He’d already distinguished himself as a genius, with boundless chakra levels and intuition like the bite of a whip. There existed a technique that would bring Ren back to the world of the living. He would find it, or he’d create it himself.

“We’re worried about you,” Hashirama said to him at last. _We. Him and Mito._ His brother was not alone, as he was.

There was once a deep division between the two of them, but it’d been filled. When they shared tears, or perhaps before, when Hashirama had silently put his hands upon his shoulders. No more secrets. They were as close now as they would ever be. Hashirama had tasted the lips of a woman. He knew and understood. “I’m going to bring her back,” Tobirama promised grimly. _If it kills me._

“You can’t. Death cannot be reversed. It is life’s most insistent truth.” Tobirama said nothing. He had to find out. If it took him the rest of his life, he’d have to at least _try_. “Death is there to remind us to live,” Hashirama cautioned. “To cherish the moments and connections we have before they’re gone.”

Tobirama silently denied. There had never been another person like Ren. There never would be again. “I can’t do it,” he whispered. “I can’t endure the world without her.”

Hashirama was silent a long time. Then, “You know if you need me, I’d do anything for you, Tobirama. I love you. Grieve. Mourn her. But in the end, let her go, and come back to the world of the living and the people who still love you and still need you.”

 _I can’t,_ he wanted to say, but he answered with a short nod of thanks instead.

Not long after, he found the answer he needed, with a price more devastating than Hashirama would be willing to pay. Tobirama had no such reservations. Weighing the value of one life against others was one of the unpalatable tasks Tobirama did so Hashirama didn’t have to. His brother would never sacrifice the life of one to bring another. _No life,_ he’d say, _is worth more than any other._

Tobirama knew it to be a lie. Her life was worth more than _every_ other.

He found his chance when an Uchiha scouting party fell afoul of Tobirama’s border guards. His men had killed the other two, but always balked at the idea of killing women. They were as yet unfamiliar with the tricksome nature of kunoichi, but they’d one day learn. No matter. His shinobi dropped her at his feet and told their tale. Tobirama heard almost none of it. Just enough to know that his barked response-- _leave us_ \--was sufficient. He hauled her up by the soft elbow, remembering a similar kind. He ignored her scathing insults and jibes. He ignored her accusations that he meant to break his honor upon her body. And as he tied her up and began inscribing the seals upon the earth, he also ignored her frightened pleas to be spared. She didn't know what he was doing, but she sensed in his ghastly expression that it was unholy and wrong.

She was right.

Just before she lived again, Ren destroyed his humanity. Shattered it so absolutely that it became naught but dust, whisked away on a breath. As the nameless shinobi stolen from the Uchiha wept and begged for mercy, Tobirama stoically formed his hand seals. _Edo Tensei,_ he called it. And so it was that an Uchiha scout no older than fifteen herself became the vessel for Ren.

Next she destroyed his memories of her. The eyes were wrong, for starters. No longer the bright and happy blue of summer, she instead regarded him from black sclera, blank and somewhat confused. “Tobirama?” She held her palms up for inspection. Thin black lines like the lifted edges of damp paper sketched across her skin. Though she was imperfect, he didn’t care. She was alive. She remembered him. He went to her. Gathered her into his arms and sobbed with relief. He had done the impossible. He’d brought her back. Ren _lived_.

And yet, she did nothing but weep. For days on end, refusing to move or look him in the eyes. She stared at her own hands and labeled herself an abomination, a freak of nature, neither living nor dead, denied both the peace of death and the pleasures of living.  

He didn’t know what to do. He’d thought that they’d be together again and that would be the end of it. “I’ve thought of nothing but seeing your face again for months,” he agonized, beseeching her to return to him in spirit, too.

“My face is dead!” she cried in return, peeling off layers of it just to prove a point. Out of the aether, specks of ash returned to her cheeks to replace torn off skin.

“You’re alive,” he insisted, breaking all over again for her inevitable death. He knew he was losing her again. She didn’t want to be a part of this world. His love for her had driven him to cheat death to see her again. Her love for him was not enough to make her stay. Cracked and bleeding in a million places he couldn’t see, he banished the jutsu. All that was left of his Ren was a corpse coated in frail, curling ash like a pile of bleached autumn leaves. Away she went with the next breeze of coming winter.

If any had known, arguments might have been made that Tobirama’s love story ultimately led to the death of the Third Hokage, his own student. And still later, to the reincarnation of Tobirama himself. And the other kage. And the jinchuriki seen throughout the ages, as well as the strongest jutsu users from every land. And, of course, Madara himself. His folly led to the raising of the bulk of Madara’s army. The return of Kaguya. The near-destruction of life upon the world.

If it were true, Tobirama would have been a monster.

Hashirama saw it for the truth that it was, and soothed his broken heart for a second time. The truth of it was carried away on a cold wind, as well as buried in the ground. The rest of it was merely a military invention. “It was a way to enable suicide attacks,” Hashirama told him uncomfortably. He hated to lie, especially to the Senju and especially about something like this. But he loved his brother, and he’d promised.

But not before making Tobirama promise that he leave all of the emotional decisions up to him, and that he keep his own two feet firmly planted in the world of the living.

On this they agreed. She destroyed everything. Most assuredly, Tobirama. Very nearly, the world. 

 


	5. Hokage

For Tobirama, the hardest part about being Hokage was likely hard to understand, if one only scratched the surface. 

The hardest part was not the paperwork. Tobirama had plenty of experience handling mission reports, scout reports, supply records, and deciphering code already. In his professional opinion, placing all such documentation in one place, neatly tied in stacks upon his desks, was more of a blessing than anything. When Hashirama had been Hokage, he never knew where to start. His brother had no head for organization, so he’d organized them in a dozen different ways that made sense to only him. Tobirama would know; he’d often ended up processing reports for him as a hundred other things distracted him from the chore he hated most. 

“How are these arranged?” he’d asked while Hashirama stared at his stack, eyes glazed over with does-not-want. He flapped a handful of reports to gain his attention. 

Hashirama had turned, slowly, pouting pitifully. “Those are…” He thought about it. “Well, I don’t know what those are.”

Tobirama calmly set them aside and chose another. They could wait. “And these?”

“Ah! Those are the reports Tsunade drew pictures for me on!” He grinned broadly.

Tobirama frowned. Severely. “Are they mission directives?” He inquired helpfully. “Perhaps, correspondence with the other nations?”

“Nope! Just whatever papers she got her hands on!”

In comparison, the paperwork situation under his reign was much more manageable.

The hardest part about being Hokage wasn’t the war, either. Konoha shinobi possessed an extraordinary level of discipline and drive. Furthermore, Hashirama’s death left them frothing at the mouth and eager for action. Under his rule--and under Touka’s excessively harsh guidance--they’d never had a stronger force. War was something Tobirama had always understood. It was his single most studied area of concentration. The tides of war were turning in Konoha’s favor. Patience and strategy would eventually win out, as it always had. 

The hardest part about being Hokage was not the administration of Konoha. Nor was it the logistical difficulties presented by municipal needs such as running water, functioning sewers, or feeding the hundreds of people that now lived there. It was not the currents of unrest present among the Uchiha and their allies back when Senju and Uchiha clashed—he was managing that… tenuously, but effectively. It was not the training of new shinobi. Or the acquisition of intel from enemy nations. Or foreign policy. Economy. Complicated, advanced political measures like tactical espionage, trade agreements, hostage negotiations, holiday ceasefires. He didn’t even mind the weekly assassination attempts, nor the black box that existed between them and from where they’d originated (foreign, or domestic?). 

The hardest part about being Hokage was Hashirama’s widow. 

As long as he’d known Uzumaki Mito, she’d been calm, mostly quiet, and pleasant. Her presence was the perfect counterpoint to Hashirama’s frequent radical changes in mood. Marriage wasn’t something Tobirama ever cared to understand, but he could see the effects of how it’d worked for his brother. His mercurial moodswings stopped almost overnight, balancing him out. He’d become calm, mostly quiet, and pleasant, and while Tobirama appreciated his brother’s lust for life—as he more or less lacked his own, and vicariously enjoyed Hashirama’s—he was glad to see Hashirama grounded. Hashirama was a brilliant Hokage, but his spectrum of intense emotions led to emotional decisions, and many of those kept Tobirama awake at night, worrying. 

Mito fixed that. Tobirama had taken Mito for granted, after that. She was merely a fixture in their lives, the anchor that kept Hashirama grounded. The mother of his children. His quiet, useful sister-in-law, attending to things Hashirama might have forgotten, or reminding him of them. Hashirama required Tobirama’s help less, which left him open to pursuing other necessary functions. For that, he was grateful. After a while, she’d become almost like wallpaper, to him. She was _there_. That was it. Never a bother, but never demanding attention.

And then Hashirama had died, and Tobirama had become Hokage in his place. And that was when Tobirama learned an important lesson: women were not to be trifled with. And this woman, in particular, had been as grounded by Hashirama as he was by her. The moment he donned the hat and took over at the Hokage’s desk, Mito became a venomous wraith with an agenda, and he was completely at a loss about what to do about it. She dogged his footsteps, followed him around from place to place, and offered her opinion where it was not wanted. 

“Go away,” he told her the first time, waving his hand. “Shoo.”

“No,” she snipped, her little nose turned up into the air. Straight-backed, her kimono perfectly pristine. Not even a speck of dust on it. 

“I don’t need you,” he insisted.

“I beg to differ,” she replied evenly. 

He endured it. Her presence, merely that, didn’t seem at first to be an issue. If she wished to waste her time trailing after him, then so be it. 

But then she started talking. He’d had a single conversation with one of his tokubetsu jounin about what should be done regarding a prisoner with information about a hostage situation (“Burn it out of him”) and she’d immediately weighed in. “My husband would have never allowed that,” she reminded him, chin lifted high. 

Tobirama blinked, wondering if he’d heard her correctly. Was she openly defying him, in public, in front of one of his own men? He turned toward her. Saw her chin lift even higher, as if trying to touch the clouds. She was a small woman. He was tall, even for a man. It was ridiculous, everything about it. He waited, one eyebrow raised, for her to rescind her words or go away.

She didn’t. “Yes, Tobirama, you heard me correctly,” she dared. “Hashirama would never have allowed you to torture a prisoner for information.”

He blinked again, then smirked. “Well,” he allowed, leaning toward her slightly. “He never allowed it before, either.”

Her eyes widened, nostrils flaring with irritation. It’d felt good to shock her, but he wasn’t done hearing the end of that. As he’d stalked off, headed toward his next stop—a just-returned border patrol, with a fresh batch of prisoners—she followed along, offering opinion all along the way. “I’m not about to let you take Konoha the way of the wolves,” she sniffed. He kept long strides, trying to leave her behind. She jogged every third step, keeping pace precisely just behind him. And after all of that, she still kept perfect composure. “He loved Konoha, and the people in it. These are _good_ people. _His_ people.”

He ignored her. Dealt with his border patrol and didn’t answer her again. When she followed him back to the Hokage’s office, he let her follow him. She shut the door behind them both. “Dear gods, you’re annoying. Why did I never know this before?” he asked rhetorically.

She ignored that. Spent the next half hour berating him for his choices and demanding he do otherwise. Lectured him on proper foreign policy, and how to handle prisoners and how gently they should be treated—as if they _weren’t_ enemies who wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of Konoha, shinobi _or_ civilian—and how to reach the hearts of the people. He’d endured it all with bored apathy; he didn’t care, but she was his brother’s widow. Family. And he supposed he owed it to her to let her think she had a say. After a while, he did what he’d always done with Hashirama. He’d assured her that he’d _look into it_ , or _consider it,_ and thanked her for her advice. 

But she came back a week later, incensed. His eyes widened, to see her there, for she’d done what Hashirama had not, and _actually checked up on his promises._ “You lied to me!” she shrieked, storming about his office. She turned over chairs, threw books at his face, and once even stomped her foot, leaving a very suspicious crack in the floor that he’d stared at for several minutes. She did not, however, show any aggression toward the carefully stacked reports. Nothing Mito ever did was wasteful. “You lied to me!” she shouted again. “You tortured that poor man! And then… and then…!” she couldn’t even say it.

“Killed him. Yes.”

 _“Why?”_ she demanded. 

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he explained calmly, “how a war works.”

“Hashirama led the Senju in the previous warring era, and he never had to result to such… _barbaric_ methodology!”

“No, he didn’t,” Tobirama replied without raising his voice, his hands resting on the desktop.

“Then why—“

“Because _I_ did,” he interrupted. 

She gasped. The rest of the comment was not lost to her ears. _And he never knew._ She left after that, but he was not fool enough to believe that she wouldn’t return.

She did. She remained in quiet attendance, everywhere he went. Until the moment he needed to make a decision or issue a decree, and then she’d offer comment, always artfully crafted to imply insult without outright defiance. And on rare occasion, she’d completely fly off the handle, throw things at him, and give him more glimpses of superhuman strength that—troublingly—his grand-niece was picking up on already. Enough was enough.

The next time she followed him into his office, he shut the door with her against it, leaning his weight against the wood so it couldn’t be opened again. Effectively, he caged her between himself and an immovable door. “I know what you’re doing, Mito,” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “And it stops today.”

“What are you going to do about it?” she challenged, crossing her arms and staring up into his stony face, completely unafraid. 

“I’m going to _make you_ stop.”

“How?” she dared.

He tilted his face and gave her a look that promised fatal things. She’d been following him around long enough to know the kinds of things he did to people that caused problems. He hoped she’d use her imagination to fill in the blank. He wouldn’t, of course, harm her. But she didn’t need to know that.

“You wouldn’t,” she shrugged.

“Wouldn’t I?”

“You’re an ill-tempered, cold-hearted brutal bastard not even worth your mother’s love, Tobirama, but if there’s one thing I know about you—“

“You know nothing.”

“—It’s that you love your family, and that includes me.”

A bold claim, but she was right. “Leave me alone, Mito.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

 _“Because you’re ruining Konoha!”_ she raged, her eyes brimming with tears. She bit her lip and looked away. 

He was silent. He didn’t know much about people in general, particularly not women—unless Touka counted, and really, she didn’t—but there was something in the way she said it that hinted at something more. “How?” he asked after a time. “You’ve no doubt noticed that nothing has changed. You’re smart. You’ve looked into it. My barbaric methods have always been a part of the Senju. War has always been a blood sport. As for the rest of it…” he waved an arm behind him, indicating the stacks of papers. “It’s organized. I have special operatives protecting you and your children—and Tsunade—at every moment of every day. When she’s of age, she can attend the new school—that _I_ have built—to train properly, if she wishes it. If her parents allow. There are police now, keeping the civilians safe, protected from shinobi that might otherwise mistreat them. The streets are safe at night. The war is turning in our favor. What more do you require of your Hokage?”

Her eyes dropped to the floor. He saw the glitter of teardrops as they fell. She didn’t answer.

“Well? _What else am I supposed to do?”_ His voice did rise in volume then, but he didn’t notice until it was too late. 

“Let me go,” she barely whispered. 

He didn’t. Felt sorry for yelling at her already.

“Tobirama… _let me go,”_ she hissed again. 

“No.” He figured it out then, why she had been such a pest. “I see what this is now.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you don’t even _have_ feelings.”

His shoulders sagged. “I think you’re confused,” he told her. “My brother had no rein upon his emotions, so I don’t blame you for your confusion.” He gripped one hand over his heart. “I _feel_ , just as deeply as any Senju feels. I only learned to cage emotions better than he did.” 

Several minutes passed in silence. “I’m not my brother, Mito,” he told her, more gently than he’d ever spoken to anyone. “I won’t pretend to be, either, and it’s unfair of you to expect anything else.”

She nodded. And then, unexpectedly, she crashed into his chest and just started sobbing.

He glanced around nervously, unsure of what to do. After a moment, he awkwardly wrapped his arms around her shoulders and let her cry. She wept for what seemed like an eternity. He wished she’d picked anyone else in the world with which to share her grief. He wasn’t any good at fielding human emotions. Before long, she shredded the carefully constructed wall he’d had over his own emotions. She’d lost a husband… but he’d lost a brother, and he’d never shed a tear over it.

Until now. 


	6. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late. Should have posted it yesterday, I know. Didn't want him to die. :(
> 
> But here you go. Sorry if it seems less refined. Tore my heart out, it did.

They’d been running for nine days without rest. They had neither the time nor the rations to help them regain chakra. The enemy was in hot pursuit. Just _how closely_ they followed was a dire fact Tobirama kept to himself. “How far behind are they?” Torifu panted.

“Just keep moving,” he urged grimly. Even a perfunctory analysis of his team was enough to spell out doom. The six of them were running on fumes and obstinance and naught else. Much like fine horses, they ran only because he pushed them mercilessly. Lungs heaving, brows sweating, limbs shaking. Exhaustion, both muscle fatigue and chakra burnout. Likely, without him there, they’d have given up two days ago. They needed the rest. No one could fight in their condition. Yet they were just diligent and stubborn enough to desire his approval, and they endured.

“Just a little further,” Hiruzen assured them.

Tobirama watched him quietly. Watched _all_ of them, as they looked to young Sarutobi and nodded, faces burning with determination. He’d restored their wills with only a few words, just like that. His elder brother had been right; Sarutobi was a natural born leader. It made him proud to see it. To have been a part of that.

But there was no time for smiling. Every scintilla of energy was needed now. 

He stopped abruptly and let them go on ahead for the space of heartbeat. He dropped to the earth and quickly pressed his two fingers to the ground, attuning his senses to the earth and the chakra that danced upon it. _They’re coming._ Twenty enemy ninja exactly, and exceptionally strong. He swallowed his sigh of resignation before it could escape his lips. _This is not good_. His own chakra was nearly extinguished. Silently, he congratulated the Kumo nin they’d clashed with over a week ago. It had taken three times that many Uchiha to wear him out before. 

_And…_

He leapt back into the trees, his body nearly crumpling from the effort. He winced with pain, hissing through his teeth as torn flesh stretched past what it should. He crouched on the branch for a moment to regain his composure, pressing trembling fingers to the wound low on his abdomen. Hesitantly, he lifted his shirt to survey the damage. The ragged hole was plugged pretty well with his own guts, preventing most of his precious lifeblood from leaking free, but… the internal damage was taking its toll. The pain was so consuming that it was difficult to breathe, hard to overcome the steady toxic injection of adrenaline. 

He drew a shuddering breath. The situation was far more dire than he was willing to admit to his young followers. With a phenomenal amount of effort, he distanced himself from his injury. He worked through it, ignoring the spikes of agony that lanced his entire body with every jarring step upon the branches. He caught up with his comrades, frantically strategizing, looking for a way to save all six of them before the Kumo nin caught up with them. His detour took no more than a couple of minutes. It didn’t seem as if they’d even noticed his temporary disappearance.

Until a brief backward glance from Sarutobi told him that at least _one_ had. And the fleeting glimpse of his brows knitting together told Tobirama that he _knew_. When the time came, the boy would be ready. It was enough. He sent his silent thanks.

 _This spot will do,_ he thought as they came to a tangled, narrow section of trees. “Stop,” he barked. A shuffling cadence of sandaled feet ground to a halt upon the bark. They turned to face him, panting, yet stubbornly refusing to admit fatigue. With a pang of regret, Tobirama wished he hadn’t been so hard on them all the time. “We’ll set traps here,” he announced. “It will slow them down.” They nodded, then scattered, automatically splitting off into their respective specialties. It was his last plan; traps didn’t cost chakra, only time and effort and a few brain waves.

Before long they were moving again. His heart raced as his body fought off shock. If the traps didn’t slow down Kumo, there was but one way out of this. It was an ugly thought, but… 

A sudden bright flare of alarm was all the warning he had as a kunai went whizzing past his ear. "Damn," he swore under his breath. He’d hoped to gain more time with the traps. It didn’t seem to have slowed them down at all. There was a clang of steel as Danzou deflected the single kunai. At the sound, all six of them stopped and turned. His six young comrades formed two formations of three. With that, the seven of them were prepared for war. Against twenty. The odds were against them. More than one of them would die. 

Only one of them had to. His teammates were exhausted. Beyond exhausted, pushed past their limits, quietly accepting when most men twice their age would whine and and collapse, give up. Pride broke his heart. He wished he could have seen the future they would build. “Sarutobi!” he shouted as the Kumo nin took up a ringed position around them. 

“Sensei!” he responded crisply. 

“I name you Third Hokage,” he announced calmly, watching their wary, circling enemy. There were gasps. None of them was Hiruzen’s. He’d known it was coming. Had silently catalogued his leader's blood loss and fatigue. They'd prepared for this moment, since before Hashirama had left the living.

“Sensei!” Koharu. She’d had the most trouble holding back emotions during their training, but she _had_ learned. She’d become the best at it, in fact. That didn’t keep the tears from her eyes now. “You can’t!”

“Listen to me,” he continued calmly. “I’m injured. I've already lost too much blood. I’ll only slow you down.”

She paused as she sought the truth in his statement, took note of the dark bloodstain nearly invisible against his black pants. “I can heal you!” she hissed fiercely. She took a step forward.

“No!” he barked. “You don’t have the chakra, Koharu,” he admonished softly. “And even if you did, you need it. But I thank you anyway. This is it for me.”

“We can fight,” Homura insisted. “Together, maybe we can—“

“Homura!” he ordered sharply. “I’m giving you my command. There isn’t any time for argument. This is my choice. Sarutobi will lead you out.” Behind him, Koharu quietly sobbed. And inside, he knew she was pissed off about letting her tears show. The thought made him smile. “It has been my honor to have been your sensei,” he said. “All of you. I'm very proud. Take care of each other. Take care of Konoha. Saru. Get them out of here. Go on now, and live.”

The moment they made to leave, a group of Kumo nin surged into action. Tobirama was ready for them. He threw his sealed kunai toward his own team, appearing before them and snatching it out of the air just as the enemy readied their attack. With a vicious set of kicks, he sent the four of them sailing back to whence they came. “Go!” he shouted over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on their foes. His gut throbbed painfully at the movement. 

His team dashed off without another word. He listened to their footsteps and whipping branches, relishing his last contact with them. 

He took up his position on the branch, one man alone against twenty. His eyes burned with righteous rage as he peered down his nose at the lot of them. They were skilled, but they didn’t need to reach his teammates as badly as he needed for them _not_ to. He took one deep, slow breath, calming his senses, seeking the void of emotionless serenity he needed even as he fronted an air of menace. This was the most important fight of his life. “You’ve made… one _hell_ of a mistake coming here,” he announced in a loud voice. _Stall tactics..._ _This is one._ _Talk some shit._

“Senju Tobirama, Nidaime Hokage,” their leader sneered. “One against twenty… tsk, tsk, tsk. Not good. For the one."

"Depends on the one."

"Unfavorable odds, to be sure.”

 _Keep talking._ “They’re my favorite kind, actually. With twenty, you might actually stand a chance against this particular one.” He grinned. 

The leader laughed.

The last voice he’d ever hear, a rasping, gloating laugh. He’d known he’d die in battle someday. He always wished he’d be older, though.

“Enough of your talking,” the other man declared. “We both know you’re just buying time. You talk a tough game, but you’re not limping away from this one, sorry to say.”

He laughed right back, though he felt as if he were splitting in half to do it. “Keep thinking it,” he warned. “How cool I’ll look when I walk back to Konoha with another twenty to add to my kill list. If you’re in such a hurry to die, by all means.” He held his arms out wide, inviting attack. 

The leader scowled. His fingers stabbed into the air, and a contingent of five at his right leapt off the ground. Two made hand seals, preparing simultaneous attacks of lightning and wind, probably a combination. The other three sped toward him with physical attacks. One hung back and threw projectiles, a storm of shuriken, senbon, and kunai all at once. His two companions charged in for taijutsu. 

His face set into a grim line as he leapt high and threw his own spray of kunai. Heads all around the ring ducked involuntarily. Then they saw that he’d ‘missed’ and laughed as the steel embedded itself deep into trees and touched not one enemy shinobi. There was a relieved chorus of snickering afterward. 

“You must be worse off than we thought,” the leader mused aloud. “If you—“

“Hmph,” he snorted as the two forerunners reached him. Their simultaneous palm strikes hit empty space as he teleported to one of his special markers. There was a collective gasp. 

He reappeared above the head of the one who’d thrown projectile weapons, came down upon the young man’s head hard, accelerating his fall to earth so forcefully that bones crunched upon impact. 

Another flicker and he was above the leader. A tanto bloomed in his throat. The sneering and laughter stopped.

Another flicker placed him in front of others. The jutsu users unleashed their technique in that direction. He flickered away, and their technique slammed into their own comrades. Their screams rent the air. 

He flashed from marker to marker, thinning the crowd. He managed to do away with nine of them before his chakra gave out. He reached for a marker too far away and found nothing but agony where it should have been. He grunted with pain and crashed to his knees. Which of course caused the red flower of misery to bloom in his belly. 

 _This is it_. He hoped that Saru and the others managed to get far enough away. Shakily, he pushed himself to his knees. His muscles quaked. The place his chakra should have been was an aching hole in his chest. His insides were on fire. Despite all of it, he’d never felt stronger. _The last stand of Senju Tobirama. Is this how you felt, brother?_ He knew he was dying. In only a few more minutes, he’d be a dead man. And yet, where he felt his fear should be was only a calm brand of acceptance, and love. Because of his death, six others would most certainly live. And because of them, Konoha, too would thrive.

“You can hardly stand,” the leader’s second-in-command commented. “Surrender, and perhaps we’ll let you live.”

It was an empty promise. He’d killed more than a dozen men with the same tactic, and knew the lie better than this man. He laughed at them, though he felt like a corpse, fueled by the will of fire in its purest form and nothing else. A spirit, conjured in Konoha's defense, with a purpose greater than the worth of his life. He _could not_ fail here. “You underestimate me,” he snarled. “You’re going to have to poke more than one hole in me to keep me from moving. So come on then.” He sank and eased into another stance, prepared to duel. His eyes shifted from man to man, burning with fury, daring any to try.

They looked to one another uncertainly, and the whispers started. “He’s out of his mind… he’s barely standing… look at all the blood… should be dead already… fucking crazy, I tell you… do you see the look in his eyes?”

“Come on, then,” he repeated. 

“Let’s all rush him at once… he’s out of chakra… nothing left…”

“I said _come on!_ ” he roared. 

And they did. 

He found a shocking sense of clarity in that fight, as if the entire scene moved in slow motion. Every fist, every foot, every bead of sweat in high definition in a series of slow snapshots. He felt every bite of every blade. Could count the number of drops of blood he lost. Could almost see the seconds he had remaining ticking away.

A quantifiable value on the death of Senju Tobirama. Forty-nine thousand eight hundred ninety-seven drops of blood. Three hundred seventeen seconds. One hundred fifteen shuriken. Seventy-two kunai. Fifty senbon. Thirty-one holes in his flesh. Twenty enemies in attendance. Seventeen foes killed. Thirteen seconds of blindness, fighting with blood in his eyes. Seven seconds where he felt no pain at all. 

Six shinobi saved.

One village.

 

 

 


	7. Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my days have been rather serious in nature. In light of Tobirama's birthday, I made this lighthearted and added my favorite story component: alcohol.
> 
> Enjoy. :)

The insistent knock came again, exactly as before. Three raps in quick succession in a set of three. Nine total. Over and over again. _Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap._ Tobirama stared at the door, narrowing his eyes, considering ignoring it still. The irritating voice that accompanied the knocking was redundant. Another set of three. _Tap tap tap._ “Tobi-dobe!” _Tap tap tap._ “Tobi-dobe!” _Tap tap tap._ “Tobi-dobe!” 

He leaned one elbow against the table and dumped his head upon his palm. He rubbed the center of his forehead and his aching, tired eyes. A swift, sideways glance at the clock told him it was already late afternoon. It wasn’t like him to sleep in, but it didn’t matter now. Hashirama had told him to go home and a good night’s rest, that he could skip the morning’s meetings. He’d said something about concern and exhaustion and made a comment about his face. Tobirama remembered little of it, only that it’d pissed him off. But he went. 

And he’d slept. _Oh,_ how he’d _slept!_ And when his eyelids finally cracked open, the sun was already high in the sky. He’d been up at the crack of dawn for years now. Until today, when he’d apparently slept past high noon. 

 _Tap tap tap._ “Tobi-dobe!” _Tap tap tap._ “Tobi-dobe!” _Tap tap tap._ “Tobi-dobe!” 

He glanced between the clock and the door, idly wondering what she could want that she refused to give up her assault on his front door. With a resigned sigh, he crossed the floor and went to the door. _Tap tap tap._ “Tobi—Aha! There you are!” She grinned, flashing perfect, pearly white teeth. But on the face of Touka, it looked more like the cheshire grin of a lion as it considered devouring prey. Such was her way. Like any Senju, she had two distinct personalities. One was ferally dangerous. One was… what was the word for it? _Irresponsible._

“What do you want, Touka-kun?” he wondered tiredly, tipping his head against the door. The sooner she told him, the sooner he could get rid of her. He hadn’t know how truly exhausted he was until he’d hit the mattress the night before. Probably, he could sleep for several days. 

“Heard you scored the day off!” she chirped brightly, her smile shifting to one side in a devious smirk.

“Yep. Not by choice, really. Sometimes it’s easier to let him win than fight.” 

“Mm-hmm. Don’t I know it! So what are your plans for the day then? You and I haven’t had a chance to really hang out since Konoha was built. So I figured… if Tobi-dobe has the day off, naturally he’d want to spend it with me. So, ta-daaa! Here I am!” She posed dramatically.

She was far too enthusiastic for his taste. “I was going to sleep all day. I feel as if I haven’t slept in months.”

“Probably true!” she sang back. “So why start now? Come on, let’s go!” She pushed past him into his house—uninvited—and flopped down unceremoniously upon _his_ couch with the clank of armor. She stretched out languorously, trailing her fingertips against the floorboards and crossing her ankles over the arm. 

“What are you doing, Touka-kun?” he wondered aloud, shutting the door. There was no getting rid of such a woman once she attached herself to your day. It was an indisputable truth of Senju Touka. More like a wolverine than a lion. She sank teeth and claws into her prey and shook until it was dead, then kept on shaking. 

“I’m waiting for you to change, of course,” she replied easily. “You can’t go out in _that_.”

He looked down on his robe and slippers. “Well, I’m not going out,” he insisted.

“Yes, you are!” she trilled. 

“No, I’m not,” he deadpanned.

Her hands flew into the air, animating every sentence. “You can’t just hole yourself up in here on your birthday. Besides, I need a drink,” she added under her breath. 

He blinked. _My…birthday?_ He thought about it, mentally ticking by the days that had passed. “Oh. So it is.”

She sat up sharply and stared over the back of the couch. “You mean, you didn’t _know?_ ” He shook his head. She turned away. “Wow. You work too hard, dobe.”

“Stop calling me that,” he snapped.

She turned her smirk back upon him. “Has that ever worked on me before?”

“No,” he admitted. He felt the start of a headache forming. “But I’m not going to go out if you insist on calling me an idiot.” He mentally kicked himself as her grin widened, for he realized immediately what he’d done. He’d just inadvertently promised to go out if she stopped.

“Deal.”

He sighed. 

* * *

 

“Woohoo! Whiskey for two!” she called out to the bartender. He turned to go get their drinks.

“Actually, I’ll just have a water,” he corrected.

The bartender flinched and slowly turned. Upon his face was the long-harassed look of a man with unwieldy customers. He looked to Touka. Not him. Tobirama wasn’t used to being the one ignored. He looked at Touka, too. Her face was a cold mask of fury, leeched of all compassion and warmth. “Actually,” she clipped. “You’ll have whiskey.”

He narrowed his eyes. “It’s my birthday. I’ll have whatever I want.” He crossed his arms and stared her down. She matched his pose yet trumped his outrage. “Go ahead. Fight with me,” he dared.

Her lips twitched into a sugary sweet smile. “Alright. Bring him the water. But bring the whiskey, too. We’ll see if we can change his mind.” She seemed to relax after that. 

And gradually, he did as well, thinking their conflict was over. The bartender came back a few moments later, setting both bottles of whiskey down in front of Touka. He gave her a shaky smile. “Thank you,” she said to him with a gracious smile. 

He dipped his head once in acknowledgment, then set the glass of water down in front of Tobirama and retreated. _Quickly._ Tobirama watched him shrink away with some confusion, trying to figure out his nervousness. Idly, his hand reached for the glass of water.

Then her fist crashed down upon the back of his hand and the water—complete with ice cubes—splashed his face. Shocked, he sucked in a breath of air. Then the glass went flying across the bar and shattered against a wall with excessive force. “Damn it all, Touka-kun!” he snarled. “What the hell was that for?” 

Though he glared at her, she was calmly pouring both of them a glass of whiskey. “Honestly,” she grumbled, shaking her head. She finished pouring and recorked the bottle. Then, she beseeched the heavens, splayed palms raised in supplication. “Who orders water at a bar? I said I needed a drink. Who said anything about being thirsty?” She slid his glass of whiskey toward him then. “Here. Happy birthday!” She was all smiles, once again.

“I’m not drinking it,” he rejected, crossing his arms upon the bar. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Yep! I know! And yes, you _are_ drinking it. You’re going to drink until I’m ready to leave.”

“Make me.”

Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “I am currently carrying twenty-seven bladed weapons and over a hundred senbon. My blood is laced with poison and I’m carrying more than a dozen other kinds. I’ve set more traps and captured more enemies with them than anyone currently under your command and my jutsu brings your nightmares to life under my control." Her face relaxed, dimpling into another pretty smile. "Nah, you don’t have to drink the whiskey, Tobi-kun. I can walk you home now, if you like, and tuck you back into bed.” She fluttered her lashes innocently. Touka was a terrifying force of nature, wild and unpredictable, beautiful and brutal all at once. 

He swallowed. She didn’t mean to tuck him in comfortably. A round of whiskey suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea. “The shinobi vices…” he trailed helplessly. The battle was already lost. 

“Meh. It’s your birthday. Fuck ‘em.” She downed her glass of whiskey in three large gulps.

He stared incredulously. Then, he drank.

* * *

 

“Ue o mu-u-uite aruko-o-ouu!” he sang.

She joined him in the second line. “Namida ga kobore naiyo-o-ouni!” 

Arm in arm, they staggered through the streets of Konoha. Every now and again, one of them would start to tip over and a rough jerk of the arm righted him or her. Like two friends spinning from one hand around a pole, they anchored one another, steady and balanced while they made their ridiculous march through the village. 

“Omoidasu harunohi! Hitoribo-otchi no yoru!” They skipped. They danced. They spun in circles with their faces lifted to the sky. Around them, people stared. Tobirama noticed none of them. Tonight was a night for revelry, and he cared not at all. Whiskey was beautiful. Whiskey was life. 

“Touka-kun,” he stopped her suddenly, grinding their advance to a halt. “I have whiskey in my zsoul place," he slurred. "Where the zsoul should be. 'S filled with whiskey now and my zsoul is gone. Help me.”

She laughed. It made the world spin around its axis. “Comes back, Toooobiiiiii,” she promised, tugging on his hands and forcing him to continue. “Dun worry ‘bout it, mmk?”

“No!” he yelped, dropping suddenly to the ground. In the middle of the road. 

She dropped to her ass beside him with a loud ‘oomph’ and clapped his back. Hard.

“Ow!” he complained.

“Psh,” she blurted. “You’re a total dumbass.”

“Don’t make fun of meee,” he whined.

“Can’t even handle whiskey,” she tsked. “Pitiful.”

“Am han-dlll-dling m’self juzt fine, thankszz.” He watched the stars swirl overhead, then crashed upon his back in the road.

“Mm-hmm. Looks tha’ way.” She tipped over beside him. “Feel better?”

“Yep,” he assured her. “Found my… soullll.” He pointed. His arm felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. “Is up there. Somewhere…”

“Ah! So it is!” she agreed. They were silent a moment. Abruptly she laughed and kept laughing.

He laughed too, though he had no idea why. They cracked up, rolling around in the dirt with their sides splitting. Eventually, Hashirama appeared, fists pressed into his hips, his face shadowed against the backdrop of the moon. "Thought it might be you," he murmured with amusement, "when they told me there was a 'scene' in Konoha proper."

Tobirama waved his hand sideways. "Out o' the way Hokage-samaaaa!" he complained. "I'm watching that!" 

"Hm?"

"You're blocking the moon," Touka explained for him.

"Thanksss," he said to her, slapping her shoulder with the back of one hand.

"Welcome."

Hashirama sighed, then lay upon the ground with his head between theirs and facing opposite. "Happy birthday, Tobirama," he said.

"Woo!" he crowed, twirling a finger in the sky.

Touka's hand slapped his away. "Shhh, you're blocking it again."

The three of them laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> They're singing "Sukiyaki." 
> 
> You can listen to it here, for your visual enhancement.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C35DrtPlUbc


End file.
